


long deaths ago, your heart

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [161]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst with a Happy Ending, Battle of Camlann, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Camlann, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Resurrection, Reunions, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 07:00:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17095967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: It’s stopped raining now, but he’s still shivering uncontrollably, teeth chattering in shock, and when he turns the corner at the bottom of the cliff he feels his legs give way. Because he can see them now, their shields arrayed in front of him—he can see them as they were before, rows upon rows of shining faces, the men who fought and died at Camlann.Written forMerthurDaily's10 Years of Merthur Celebration 2018, Day 4: Scenery/Location.





	long deaths ago, your heart

 

It’s Arthur who insists on going back to Camlann.

 

“It’s just a field, Merlin,” he says, when Merlin brings up the fact that, technically, it’s the place where he was mortally wounded, even if it wasn’t actually the place where he died. “Everyone who was there has been dead for hundreds of your years, and unlike me, they’re not coming back. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

 

 _Your years_. Not his. Sometimes Merlin wonders if Arthur has ever really acclimatised to the 21st century, or if there’s a part of him still stuck in Middle Ages that will never come back. “I’m not afraid of the ghosts,” he says, which Arthur naturally takes to be the end of the conversation. “I’m afraid of the memories.” But Arthur doesn’t hear.

 

It’s drizzling by the time they get out of the car, the sky grey and overcast, Arthur’s hair slowly turning dark and sticking to his forehead. The road only goes part-way to the battleground; beyond that, they have to walk, hiking with their backpacks full of camping gear out into the wilds. Arthur moves with a purpose, striding ahead of Merlin like he has someplace to be, and Merlin trails reluctantly after him, dragging his feet, feeling the prickle of moisture against his skin and something else that makes his fingers tingle: magic, buried deep amongst the stones.

 

Camlann is a big place, caught between two cliffs at the base of the White Mountains, bisected by the line of a crooked river. It’s cold this time of year, and Merlin doesn’t think he’s imagining the pervasive chill that creeps into his bones, the way the very landscape seems to be weeping. He presses a hand against the rock as he walks, tracing the damp veins of it where they vanish into the earth, and when he next looks up, Arthur is gone. Vanished without a trace.

 

Panic grips Merlin’s throat so suddenly it makes him dizzy, and for a horrifying moment he is unable to cry out. When he finds his voice, all that comes out is a croak. “Arthur!” He turns in a circle, trying to guess the direction that Arthur has gone. “ _Arthur!_ ”

 

Only the echoes answer. Staggering, Merlin follows the path down into the valley, keeping one hand on the rocky wall to hold himself upright. It’s stopped raining now, but he’s still shivering uncontrollably, teeth chattering in shock, and when he turns the corner at the bottom of the cliff he feels his legs give way. Because he can see them now, their shields arrayed in front of him—he can see them as they were before, rows upon rows of shining faces, the men who fought and died at Camlann.

 

 

+

 

 

Arthur finds him with his head pressed between his knees, eyes closed, fingers buried in the dirt in an attempt to anchor himself.

 

“Merlin?” He’s crouching, hands on Merlin’s shoulders. Merlin can’t look at him. “Merlin, are you all right?"

 

“I was here,” Merlin sobs. “I was here the whole time. But I saw—”

 

A cloak settles around him, gentle fingers prying him from the earth. Arthur says, “I thought you weren’t coming with me.” Merlin can picture him smiling, hesitant, though he sounds a little confused. “But I’m glad you changed your mind. I could use you by my side at a time like this.”

 

Slowly, Merlin raises his head. Arthur is dressed from head to toe in mail, the steel of his gorget reflecting in the sun. The sword Merlin had tossed into the lake with his own two hands is strapped to his hip, untarnished, and he still has his boots on.

 

“Arthur,” Merlin says blankly. “You’re—you’re _you_.”

 

“Of course I’m me, you idiot,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes. “Were you expecting someone else?”

 

“I was expecting—” But Merlin cuts himself off. He’s not sure what he was expecting, exactly; all he knows is that it wasn’t this.

 

 

+

 

 

Arthur takes him back to his tent on the battlefield, where he insists on stripping Merlin down and shoving him into dry clothes before he lets him eat. The soup is thick but good, served with the kind of rich brown bread that Merlin had forgotten the taste of, and Arthur watches him eat with steady attention, his eyes too-blue and far too curious as he studies Merlin’s face.

 

He’d sent everyone else away when Merlin asked him to, including his wife, who had tried to protest, and now it’s just the two of them, alone, although Merlin’s not sure if that makes it better or worse. He’s feeling more himself now that he’s eaten, strong enough to take in his surroundings without wanting to throw up. He can recognise Arthur’s bedroll laid out in the corner, Arthur’s personal belongings strewn around like debris. He recognises Arthur’s expression, too, one he hasn’t seen on that beloved face for a very long time.

 

“Where have you been, Merlin?” Arthur asks quietly, while Merlin finishes the last of the stew and mops up the dregs with his bread. He waits for Merlin to chew and swallow, then says more insistently, “I’ve never seen material like that before, and some of the things in your pack—they’re like magic.”

 

Merlin doesn’t _intend_ to explain anything. Surely, he thinks, there must be rules about this, things that he can and cannot do. Any mistakes he makes could have terrible consequences. But Arthur is sitting there in front of him, majestic and arrogant, so perilously close to the last day of his life, and Merlin can’t do _nothing_ , can’t keep it secret from him all that he knows.

 

“You’re going to think I’m crazy,” he says—one final attempt to derail the conversation. “You’re not going to believe a word I say.”

 

Arthur merely raises an eyebrow. “Like that’s ever stopped you before,” he says, and Merlin caves.

 

“I’ve been to the future,” he blurts, pushing his bowl away. “And, Arthur—I think I’m here to save your life.”

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to check out the sequels!


End file.
